An Alliance of Fools
by Lorelai Quinn
Summary: It's 1919. The Darwinists have won; Alek has gained and lost an Empire. When the British send Deryn Sharp as one of the guards meant to escort Alek to Swizerland, the estranged friends find themselves entangled in a dangerous web of conflicting loyalties.
1. Part I  Watches on Tennis Courts

An Alliance of Fools

Part I – Watches on Tennis Courts

The world's rules seemed to bend around Deryn Sharp. Alek stroked the smudged edges of the printed image, capturing her face in tiny points of ink. The newspaper clipping was faded now, creased and slightly wilted from being kept in his pocket watch for nearly a year, but he could still read the headline that had rippled the fabric of the European continent:

Royal Naval Air Fleet Admits First Female Officer

He snorted. Admits _to_ was more like it. Deryn had been known to the crew of the Leviathan since before Alek's departure, and only after promotion, decoration, and undeniable acts of bravery that bordered on idiocy was the Lord Admiral forced to admit she was not only a worthy soldier, but also a necessary part of the fleet. There were even girls in America now, learning to pilot Clanker planes and Darwinist airbreathers; they'd been quoted in the article, extolling admiration for Lieutenant Deryn Sharp.

Of course, they would never give other girls the opportunity to enlist, nor would they likely promote Deryn any further, but at least they hadn't taken away her dream.

Alek was glad. At least one of them had succeeded in their independent lost causes. His was falling to pieces.

He studied the picture closer, searching out sign of the injury that had finally exposed her, but it was invisible under her uniform. He fancied he could see a slight glimmer just beyond her collar, sunlight reflecting off metal, but it could have been a mistake in the printing. His eyes flicked back to her face, and the familiar sick ache started up again.

_"Looking at her, it is difficult to imagine how one might ever mistake a lovely lowland lassie like Deryn Sharp for a boy, yet she remained in cognito as a man for four years before a field injury led to the discovery of her true identity."_

Alek rolled his eyes at the snippet of article clinging around the base of the photograph. The author had clearly known nothing of Deryn's proclivity for knife-throwing, dare-deviling, and extravagant swearing. Maybe now that she was a young woman (she'd been 18 in the picture) and wasn't covered in grease, blood, and dust, it was harder to see her as a boy. Her face had matured, delicate cheekbones and jaw revealed as the youthful softness of her face melted away.

He sighed again, causing Bovril to stir and give an odd catlike purr before settling back around his neck like a breathing scarf. Blast it all. With everything else working against him, he should have known Deryn would have the audacity to be pretty.

In the photograph, she sat on a stack of crates waiting to be loaded onto the Leviathan, the familiar sight of the Statue of Liberty in the background. She leaned back on an arm with one leg cocked out and the other crossed under her—tough, relaxed, and intentionally sloppy. Her hair was a bit longer than regulation, the top buttons of her uniform shirt undone to expose her throat. Even the camera captured her swagger. But there was a hard look in her eyes as she glared at the camera, and Alek guessed she hadn't authorized any photographs.

The newspaper had been the only image of her he'd seen since they'd said goodbye, and now the images of that last day swarmed his head, searing his chest like sticky phosphorous—a burn that never seemed to entirely go away. He saw the memories like a series of mental photographs, if photographs could be in color.

Dusk light pressed in around them, silent but for the rustle of wind stroking the trees and camouflage nets over his stolen walker. They'd slipped the small party of allies loading supplies into a second walker and ducked beneath the nets. An image of Deryn's skin mottled with shadows, her eyes catching the barest glint of moonlight. He'd stared at her, throat glued shut. She'd stared back.

Without a word, she'd wiped a smudge of grease from his jaw, and her hair had seemed to call his hands to it. He remembered his fingers shaking as he drew them through her hair, her jaw clenching against his thumbs.

He didn't remember who had leaned in first, but it had taken all of ten dizzy seconds to have her pinned hard against the steel leg of the walker. He remembered heat, the feeling of her body straining against his, her hands fisting in his jacket and drawing him harder against her. Even now the memory of that kiss struck him at inconvenient times, making his eyes glaze over and his whole body go tense and uncomfortably warm.

They'd both resolved not to cry, but the kiss had tasted like salt. He remembered his eyes burning, though he'd managed to hold back as he reached into his shirt and withdrew a long chain, threaded through with a button emblazoned with the Hapsburg crest. With her mouth still hot under his, he'd passed the chain over their heads and settled it around her thin neck. The button slipped between them as they kissed, letting time slip away until the shadows dissolved into real darkness. It bit into their chests, as if to remind them what they weren't allowed to have.

Before then, he'd never understood tokens of love, but at that moment, desperately grappling for a last few seconds—trying to memorize the unexpected pliancy of her lips, the smell of her skin, the way her fingers felt under his jacket, which had definitely been buttoned a few minutes ago—they made sense. He understood single gloves, cufflinks, locks of hair, and pictures in pocket-watches, left on tennis courts.

He'd wanted her to know what was in his heart and take it with her; he'd wanted her to think of him, as much as he'd been sure he would think of her.

Luckily it had been Bovril and not Count Volger that had finally interrupted them. Deryn had broken the kiss, turning her head aside so his lips skidded across her jaw. Then, suddenly, she'd grabbed his head in both hands and held his forehead hard to hers. Her eyes were fierce in the shadow of the walker, bright with unshed tears.

"I don't care what happens, Alek," she'd whispered, voice harsh with restrained feeling. "We'll always be allies."

And she'd stuffed the button into her uniform and torn away from his grasp, ducking out from under the camouflage netting.

"Allies," Bovril had repeated, hopping up onto Alek's shoulder. The poor thing had been just as distraught to see her go as Alek had—seeming to know how long it would be until he saw Deryn again.

Alek tried never to think about the weeks following her departure. The aching cavity in his chest kept him up at night seeing her face, imagining her next to him, cursing war and titles and the papal decree driving wedge after fortified wedge between them. Then the Emperor had passed, and the Clankers lost Italy and the ear of the new Pope. In a brilliant strategy devised by Alek and Volger, they'd beaten his cousin back to the Hapsburg seat of power and claimed his throne with a mixture of will, violence, and stupid luck. Not that it meant anything now.

After four years of war, the Clankers had lost.

A few months aboard the Leviathan hadn't changed the fact that he was the leader of a Clanker nation and—worse yet—the son of the couple whose assassination had lit the fuse to the powder keg that was the European-Asian continent. The Darwinists had given him an ultimatum, and even Volger had failed to devise a way around it.

The ink had been thick-lined and heavy with regret last November, as Alek carefully wrote the decree relinquishing his participation in the administration of state affairs. Austria and Hungary were free to establish their own governments. Alek could only grit his teeth and hope for loyalty—hope to be invited to reclaim the power that had been in his family's possession for 500 years.

It had not been an abdication. Alek felt anger crackling over his skin like a primed Tesla cannon. He would never give up the title he'd fought so hard for. Friends had sacrificed themselves for him, his parents had died, and in Alek's mind he was the leader of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Whether there would be an Empire left or not was up to the people; Alek could not make that decision. But it seemed Austria and Hungary had both dispensed with the need for a monarch, for now, four months after the end of the war, he had not been involved in political decisions in the least.

And the British were coming. Half to make certain Alek did not stir up trouble and held up his side of the agreement, and half to protect him from the threat of enemies both old and new. The correspondence from Britain had indicated an elite group of guards, most of whom were a part of the newly-established British Air Force, to escort Alek and his household to Swizerland. He swallowed the tangle of nerves and anger, and looked down at the telegram that had started the train-wreck of memories.

LT. D. SHARP.

He'd asked. He hadn't intended to, but curiosity and a punishing sense of hope had driven him to request the names of the unit officers. Of course, he'd been disappointed as the first name clicked through. Then he'd heard the second.

D-STOP-S-H-A-R-P-STOP

Deryn.

The tangle of nerves had nearly rushed up his throat, and suddenly God did not seem quite so cruel. Alek pushed the telegram aside and folded the newspaper clipping along its well-worn creases. It was soft as the finest linen now and no longer smelled of ink. It fit easily into his watch, over the tiny portrait of his mother.

His father's watch, miraculously recovered by the senior housekeeper and kept for him until he returned. Alek watched the tiny hands tick out the seconds, fingers absently stroking the crest on the back.

What would she look like now? Like the picture? Perhaps, with the world now knowing she was a woman, she would have grown out her hair. Somehow, he doubted she had. How much had she thought of him? Did she still wear the chain and button?

More importantly, did she still love him? After all, it had been almost four years since he'd seen her. He'd had a few girls, but they were nothing compared to her. None had held his attention. None had excited him or terrified him or challenged him the way she had. He respected Deryn more than just about anyone he'd ever met, and he almost felt sorry for the other women who struggled to impress him in her wake.

She was impossible to equal. But was he? She'd been courted, he was certain of that—there was no reason she shouldn't, and as long as he didn't think about it too hard, he had no problem with it. As long as she never stayed with anyone. As long as there was still a chance.

But that was unfair—if Austria or Hungary called him back to rule as King or Emperor, he would never be able to do right by her. And even if they didn't, he was still Austrian nobility, and expected to marry within his own class. It wasn't fair to expect, or even hope, that Deryn leave herself available for him. If she still even wanted to.

The watch ticked on, telling him that the ship carrying Deryn back to him was a full two hours away. He closed it with a soft snap, slid it into his pocket, and stood. Bovril's tiny claws sank into his shoulder as he stirred from sleep.

"It's a bit early yet," Alek said. "But I think we'll go meet the ship at the landing pitch." His boots clicked on the marble hallway.

"_Mr_. Sharp," Bovril said.

"Yes, Bovril," Alek said. "We're going to meet Deryn."

"Deryn," the creature said, and then trilled happily. "Allies."

"Let us hope," he said, and fell silent as Count Volger and Otto Klopp drew even with him.

"Hope," Bovril repeated.


	2. Part II The Princely Precedent

Hey everyone! Thanks for all the positive feedback on the first chapter of this! I'm writing it in my limited down-time, and it's entirely un-betad rough draft. If you enjoy it, check out my writing blog for my original fiction at .com

Looking forward to Goliath!

An Alliance of Fools

Part II – The "Princely" Precedent

Deryn hadn't expected the smell of Austria to prick her eyes with tears, so it was just as well that the sight of Alek bashed her silly as an Elephantine kick. She nearly dropper her rigid salute as he strode across the field toward them, slowly coming into focus. Barking spiders. He'd grown up.

Alek had—annoyingly—remained as good at avoiding photographers as ever, so in Deryn's mind he'd remained the same: sixteen, haughty, handsome…and shorter than her. He certainly had not been so close a match in height to Count Volger, who strode along at Alek's shoulder, vulpine as ever. Alek at least drew even with her now, maybe a squick taller if she took off her rubber-soled uniform shoes.

The geometry of his face had emerged, showing off the angular features and deep-set green eyes. And was that…yes, it was a _scar_ running a slim white curve over his jaw. Apparrently, Alek had used that saber of his after all. Deryn felt a wriggle of sadness in her belly, like a Huxley dtraining at a mooring knot. Alek's scar was a rather dashing hint of roguishness on his straight-laced appearance; Deryn had plenty of battle scars she was proud of, but…

But just the one made her a squick self-conscious. Not that Alek could see it. But if… She shut down her brain before she could pursue that dangerous train of thought.

Hell, but he cut a handsome figure all tailored and decorated in Hapsburg formal, with a more-than-ornamental sword hanging from his hip. She couned at least three other weapons: a pistol, a hunting-knife, and probable a fifteen centimeter dagger strapped under his left sleeve. If not, it was splinted. But she doubted that.

He was a man now, dead proper. Blisters, how unexpected.

The medals on his breast flashed back at her as he strode onto the pitch to meet them, and when he stopped a few meters away it was all Deryn could do to keep her eyes straight ahead. This was no joyous reunion—it was a military mission. As if to underscore this fact, Alek snapped a smart salute.

"Lieutenant Colonal _." Alek said—oi, his voice got deeper too!—and shook the officer's hand.

"_," the colonal responded, and Deryn felt her whole gut reorient. It was definitely wrong to laugh in this situation, but the unnerving reminder that her Alek was actually an Emperor made her at once giddy and depressed. Knowing what Alek's station was was totally different from hearing someone address him that way.

But, in public at least, Deryn would have to call him that too. Hopefully, she was still allowed to call him Alek in private.

Suddenly, his green eyes were in front of her, glinting strangely. Yep, he _was_ a squick taller than her now, even with her anti-electrik boots. She stared a moment, dumb struck be the familiar face with its alien adultness so close-up. Alek's expression seemed to twitch.

"At ease, Lieutenant Sharp."

Deryn dropped her hand from the salute and grasped his proffered hand. There were far more calluses than she remembered.

"A belated congratulations on your promotion," he said. Deryn, whose arm had seemed to go numb from toughing him, opened her mouth to respond, but snapped it shut with an audible click as the barking Emperor of Austria and King of Hungary, her best friend Alek, bent to kiss her hand.

Her back went lightning-rod straight, all her muscles tensed as if he were electrocuting her.

Barking proper. Or was it? She was a rutting military officer in the BAF! He couldn't go around kissing her hand like a lady in waiting! Or could he? It wasn't as if there was any protocol for the greeting of a female officer, seeing as Deryn was the first one.

Barking princes. Or Archdukes. Or Emperor-King-whatsits. Leave it to Alek to set a precident within the first five minutes of seeing her.

Alek rose, and she saw the amused glitter in his eyes as he took in her expression. No doubt she was as red as his cravat. Oh, she would get hell for this later. Lucky for her the men knew better than to laugh in front of a sodding Emperor. But how did she respond? She couldn't return the congratulations for becoming Emperor of an Empire he'd just lost.

"Thank you, _," she said, overtly solemn in the face of his extravagant title. "It's good to see you again." No use pretending they didn't know each other.

"And you as well, Lieutenant," he said. "How ever unfortunate the circumstances." His hand slid away and he stepped back, addressing them at large. "May I present Count Volger," he began, gesturing to the man, who bowed, eyes measuring each of the soldiers individually and remaining longest on Deryn. "And Master Engineer, Otto Klopp." Introductions finished, he nodded to the Lieutenant Colonel. "I am certain you have your orders."

Just as Alek took a breath to continue, something struggled out of Klopp's arms and bounded toward Deryn. Alek made a grab for it, but mussed, and next moment, Bovril had scaled Deryn's uniform and wound itself around her face.

So much for an elegant first impression. She untangled the loris's claws from her hair, desperately wishing someone would laugh to diffuse the tension, and dragged Bovril off her face.

"It seems he missed you too," Alek said, and Deryn patted Bovril on the head, trying to remain serious despite the fact that he had said "_too"_, suggesting that Alek had missed her that much. Only then did she realize the loris's claws were scrabbling softly around the back of her neck, fiddling with the chain that was, even now, hidden inside her uniform.

"Allies," the creature said. Deryn froze. Had Bovril not learned to choose his timing yet? One might think after being near a politician for so long…

"I do apologize for him," Alek said, gathering the loris into his arms. Their eyes met briefly, and with identical fear—what if Bovril repeated other things? Deryn had done enough to get her expelled from the service, or even court-martialed, if the Lieutenant Colonel ever looked into it. But it wasn't him Deryn was worried about.

On her right, Fitzroy's eyes sharpened. The man had had it out for her since before she'd been chosen in favor of him to remain aboard the Leviathan, and everything that had happened since then had only made him more abrasive. If there was anyone she had hoped never to work with again, it was him. The others might take the Mickey out sometimes, but none of them would ever truly insult her.

Deryn kept her eyes staunchly forward as they followed Alek off the green, lagging behind just out of hearing range.

"I think Lieutenant Sharp needs a change of knickers," remarked McOwen. Deryn punched him on the arm hard enough to leave a bruise.

"Can I kiss your hand too?" laughed Wilcox.

"Sure," Deryn said. "It'll be right there when I knock out your teeth."

So the teasing began.


End file.
